August 20, 2008
There is no end to the amount of cliches available when talking about emotions. I don’t think I’ve been on a rollercoaster or that they have run wild. I have, however, had two emotional experiences in the last 24 hours which I’d like to share.
Last night I got a text from mother saying the dear old cat had died. She was very old, having been my cat since I was about seven years old, but the last few years she has really been my mum’s cat and spent every evening perched on her lap. I cried for poor old kitty, curled up in a hug on the bed, and new kitty Fattie came over to rub her face on my wrist in a genuinely concerned way. This made me laugh. I don’t think there has been a time I have cried in the last 5 years when something hasn’t made me laugh. Such is the strange nature of my crying.
Mother emailed me today about kitty, saying despite incredible deterioration kitty had still managed to make a glarey enough face to frighten a squirrel out of the garden. RIP kitty ❤
The second event was this morning, when neighbour returned from wherever he had been off work to catch the morning bus again. He lent me a book, Stranger in a Strange Land, saying that this was the 13th time he had bought a copy to lend to someone. He is truly a man after my own heart. Just the other night I had been looking at my bookshelf thinking that the best books, the ones that get you really excited, are the ones you need to share and end up lending out and giving away so that eventually all that’s left on your shelf is the dross. Which is a bit sad really as I aspire to a truly grand library.
August 5, 2008
This is one of the searches someone typed in that found my blog yesterday. Do women taste their own Virginia? I think Virginia Woolf’s prose would taste of semicolons. I think her corpse would taste dry and old and leathery.
But I’m sure that’s not what the questioner really meant, though the absurdity of their malapropism detracts from the offensiveness of the question. It’s not the kind of thing you can find a conclusive answer to on google, and I doubt there is a wikipedia page about it. It reminds me of yesterday afternoon when I am certain I heard a guy say something about tits as he drove past me. That was intimidating as well though, and reminded me that it has been a long time since I went anywhere other than to work and back by myself.
Trying to find out if women like the taste of their vaginas is just weird. It implies that all women will have the same opinion on the matter. It implies that the questioner is planning a sexual encounter with a woman and while on the one hand it may be seen as considerate to do some research first it isn’t going to help in the slightest as it won’t take her preferences into account. I sigh at the hopelessness of this misguided individual and hope that if things start getting daft in the bedroom they have a little laugh over it and have a good time.
I will assume the questioner is not a woman, otherwise she could just taste her own juices without the aid of a search engine (unless she was checking if it was a good idea first). I’m guessing he is young, shy and inexperienced from the typo and … well the need to ask the question at all. I’m hoping he was researching in order to avoid a faux pas while getting creative in the bedroom and wants to please his female friend(s) genuinely and earnestly.
I am really hoping he is not a creep, looking for weird descriptions of finger-licking fun because his web-browser is banned from accessing the pr0n. Access the pr0n elsewhere, my dear, you’ll not be finding it here.
July 31, 2008
This morning just before I woke up I dreamed I was in a stark grungy building. Molly Ringwald was there but she exploded. Then I had a glass of smoothie made from her remains. It tasted rancid and I thought “Maybe I should have cooked it first”
I had a twinge of nausea but that was probably when the cat stood on my stomach.
July 2, 2008
I feel like the shadow of death is hanging over me at the moment, and it doesn’t help that the sky is thickly overcast. Yesterday I didn’t post because I was too busy having a massive freak-out after my partner told me he’d been quite badly electrocuted by the toaster. I was consumed by the possibility of his death for the rest of the day and as soon as I got home I hugged him and started to cry. This probably confused him quite a lot as it was 6 hours after the incident and he was quite chirpy by then, playing games and enjoying caffeine. It was like the moment when you realise your own mortality. I’d had mine at around the age of six when my great-grandma died and I realised that I wasn’t going to last forever. I was probably too young to include in that the idea that all the people I dearly love will die also. Losing my parents will of course be devastating when it happens but losing my partner or very close friends will hurt in a different way because I’m not done with them yet. There are still things I need them for, things I will want to share with them and things I can share only with them. Each of these people means something different to me and there are things that I share with each of them that the others wouldn’t understand.
An assured death, definitely sheduled to occur shortly, is that of my childhood cat. There were two of them but the first died two years ago of tongue cancer – apparently common in cats. Now the fat old mog has grown frail, her kidneys are lumpy, her heart murmury and her appetite lacking. I don’t think there will be time to go home and say goodbye.
Finally I fear for my grandmother. She is 80 today, and next week she is going to have surgery to remove a tumour from her bowel. I hope this will make her better – she has been getting weaker for the last year and it could be the tumour growth was sapping her strength. Or she could just be old. My brain has created a story around the situation: that my mother will sacrifice her beloved cat in order to save her mother. Will this satisfy death? In time I will know.
June 2, 2008
Being new to the so called Blogoshere I had no idea how common circle-jerking was and how incredibly obvious my previous comment about it is. This embarrasses me. How can I complain about other people reveling in the delight of their own retardation when I fall prey to it myself? I suppose at the very least I can now see what I have done and freely admit it.
In other news: worst shopping experience of my life including an hour spent in the TB hotbox known as Housefolk Epsilon’s car. My glands were actually swollen for the rest of the day after that – if I wasn’t such an avid fan of fruit and veg I am certain I would have succumbed to a terrible disease. We were on this pointless car journey to what had been heralded as the most amazing hypermarket this side of Lebanon but actually turned out to be someone else’s local Tesco. The ceiling was low, the isles cramped together and clogged with obese children. The selection was not good, turned out more expensive than our usual shop despite not getting everything we wanted and we were all longing for death.The signs stuck on the shelves cheekily saying “cheaper than #insert name of rival supermarket#” just served to remind me of all the places I could be that wasn’t there. Plus self-promotion by denigrating others really pisses me off because it makes the offender look petty, callous and lacking in good qualities to brag about. Which they are, because they’re Tesco. Never, ever, ever go to Tesco.
Also never, ever, ever watch American Pie 6: Beta House. Unless you promise to turn off the sound and use it as softporn.
May 20, 2008
I plan this to be a departure from yesterday’s tragic emo-fest. In fact there has been a degree of emo-whinging in the last few posts generally. It’s time for the bitch to get back on top.
Last night I was still on my ‘being sensible’ based downer, particularly after falling up two different sets of stairs, begging the question: What the shit? I bathed the stress away and soothed my mind with the chibi delights of Final Fantasy. Ah, cliched girlie game with undertones of misogyny, how I love you. (NB: you can analyse the inherant flaws in something and still enjoy it.)
I also awarded myself a gift which arrived in the post yesterday: the complete works of Zelda Fitzgerald. The cover sleeve says she is to the jazz generation what Marilyn Monroe is to movie fans. The definition of Marilyn in my head says: tragic corpse, once possessor of the most emotive eyes on screen and epic tah-tahs. I bought the book so I could read Save me the Waltz after Tender is the Night (cue stupid Blur song coming in to my head again) and see how they compare. And also to feed my new-found fetish for literature of the Lost Generation (because there is no conceivable way that that doesn’t sound cool) despite my vow to not buy more books until the old books have been read. There are still about eighty books that need to be read. I may need to spend a month in solitary to make even a slight dent in the pile.
I have started collecting jokes with the idea of putting them into a sitcom. After all the encouragement in class to write radio plays, despite being the most unfamiliar with them I could possibly be, I have decided that my many years of TV consumption would make a visual format much more applicable to my experience. I don’t know how far I will go with this; like the vast majority of my pet projects it may never even see a first draft but it’s nice to have something to think of. Knowing the BBC reads unsolicited scripts also gives me hope.
Ah that dirty little word hope. It doesn’t matter what you are doing or whether you achieve anything from it as long as you have hope while you do it. You may have noticed the last time I was having hope was when cross stitching and discovering Etsy as a potential outlet for this little art of mine. I’ve not mentioned it since as I have had very little time to do any of late, though I have designed and started my second piece.